A Very Specific Type
by Spartangal22
Summary: Molly's engagement is over. She ended it. As she takes off her ring for the last time, she reflects on the man who led her to this decision, the ridiculousness that is love at first sight, and why, after all these years, she still loves Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

_Meat dagger_. That was when she knew she had to end it. She'd tried so hard, _so bloody hard_, to just move on, but in the end, it came back to Sherlock. It always came to back to Sherlock.

Molly sighed and took off the ring for the last time. Tom had told her to keep it. _"I bought it for you_," he'd said. _"Who else am I going to give it to?"_ The guilt had sunk in then, but Molly was resolved. Ending the engagement was the right thing for both of them, she was convinced of that. Tom should marry someone who loved him for him, weird meat dagger theories included. And Molly…

After the meat dagger incident, Molly had forced herself to answer what should have been a few easy questions. _Who would you rather have a conversation with: Tom or Sherlock?_ _Who would you rather spend a day with: Tom or Sherlock? Who would you help if they both needed you: Tom or Sherlock?_

_Who do you love?_

Molly had never really believed in love at first sight. In high school, she'd scoffed at "Romeo and Juliet," arguing that it was a story about two lustful teenagers, not love. The only serious relationships she was in throughout school were with boys she'd known a long time, ones she had established strong friendships and commonalities with, who she thought she might develop feelings for given the opportunity. When her college roommate, Wanda, married a man she'd only met six months before, Molly congratulated her and silently wondered whether Wanda was pregnant or just crazy.

And she kept dating and kept waiting, convinced that, eventually, one of her long term relationships would blossom into something more. When she turned 30, still unwed, she began to come to the realization that maybe marriage wasn't for everyone. She had a good job, good friends, a few cats…what more did she really need?

And then he walked in, covered in blood and demanding three pointer fingers and a thumb, and three minutes, four insults, and several bodies parts later, Molly was in love.

Sometimes she liked to tell herself that she'd only been infatuated with him that first day, not in love, but she knew. She was Juliet, falling for a strange and attractive man with no truly endearing qualities, dooming herself to a lifetime of pain for a moody man who would likely abandon her when a better pathologist turned up (_okay, that last part wasn't in the play, _she noted.) She understood, now, why Wanda had married that man so quickly – if Sherlock asked, she'd already be down the aisle, jeans and lab coat intact.

He'd never ask, though. She knew him now. For the first few years, she'd tried to get close to him, tried to understand him. She watched him work, gave into his strange requests even when he treated her like dirt (_because he treats everyone like that_, she'd told herself, _but at least he's noticing me._) It was when she stopped trying, though, that she really began to know him. And for a while, she thought that, maybe, getting to know him would turn her off – maybe she'd constructed him to be a perfect man because she liked the way he looked (_infatuation, not love_) and she'd been able to do that because she really knew nothing about his personality because, _damn it_, how could she love him if she didn't actually know him?

But she was wrong. After Christmas that year, when he'd humiliated her (_and kissed her cheek,_) something changed between them. He respected her. And he talked to her. And she fell more in love with him than ever before. _Damn it!_

She knew most people felt sorry for her, pining away for a man who would never love her. Hell, if she had been one of her friends, she'd probably slap her. _Quit wasting your life on him. He's a sociopath. You deserve better._ Wanda actually said that to her once, before introducing her to Tom.

The thing was, though, Sherlock _wasn't_ a sociopath, as much as he liked to say he was. She'd looked up the definition once. Sociopaths exhibited ten general qualities and, sure, he had some of the signs (emotional immaturity, lack of guilt, self-centeredness) but the major ones (not learning from experience, no sense of responsibility, inability to form meaningful relationships), those weren't there. Sherlock, she'd decided, was socially awkward and shy. So was she. There was nothing wrong with that.

After that Christmas, when their relationship moved from her watching him from a distance to something resembling friendship, Sherlock began consulting her more and more. He asked her to do more lab work, not because he couldn't do it, but because he wanted a second opinion, and he trusted her. Some people, she knew, still thought he was using her, that she was letting him, but that wasn't the case. Sherlock wouldn't take the time to be considerate if he didn't mean it. And when he consulted her, they talked. And Sherlock proved to be everything she'd always thought about him – smart and witty and handsome and unsure and completely human. More than that, though, he made her feel good about herself. He complimented her skills, something so rare that she knew it was genuine, and he laughed at her jokes, and around him, she felt _good._ That was what people like Wanda (_and everyone else)_ didn't understand – she pined for him not simply because she wanted him, but because she liked who she was around him.

The fact that Moriarty hadn't targeted her hurt, at first, as stupid as she knew that was, because she questioned all over again whether their friendship was just in her mind. But when Sherlock came to her for help, she knew she'd been right – he valued her. He saw something in her that others didn't see. And his faith made her want to live up to all she could be.

He'd stayed with her two days after the fall. Her small apartment had never felt more like home.

And then he was gone. "Don't wait up," he'd said with a smile as he left. It was more than just goodbye, though. It was a message – _don't wait for me, Molly. _And for the first time in years, Molly didn't feel the need to wait. Because Sherlock was gone. She spent a few weeks almost in a trance, waiting for him to come running through the doors at St. Bart's with some strange request, making her laugh at odd times, asking her opinion. She felt empty. But as the months went by without seeing his face, the emptiness diminished. Sure, she got occasional updates from his brother, but "He's not dead" never really gave her the impression that she would be seeing him soon. So she took his last bit of advice to heart, and she met Tom.

And without seeing Sherlock's face everyday, she found that she actually enjoyed Tom. He made her laugh (_with stupid jokes, not witty ones_. _He tried awfully hard_) and he liked watching her work (_he didn't understand anything she did, of course. He thought she was brilliant_) and they had sex _(lots and lots of sex_.) It wasn't love at first sight, not like with Sherlock, but when he held out that ring, she realized she'd found something she would never have with Sherlock – stability. He wasn't Sherlock, but he was _there_. So she said yes.

And then he came back. He bloody came back and he was different than ever before. _I was wondering if you want to solve crimes with me_. With those words, Molly realized she'd fallen back in love. And the day she spent solving crimes with him, even though she'd understood next to nothing that took place, was more personal than anything she and Tom ever did. They had sex. They went to pubs. Sherlock, though, took her to his home, his sanctuary, let her see the inner workings of his mind like he'd seen her at St. Bart's. When he kissed her cheek (_again_,_) _Molly had felt more of a spark than any of the passionate embraces she'd ever had with her fiancé. And the emptiness that had come when Sherlock had gone was suddenly filled, even though she thought that Tom had fixed it for her months before. Tom had satisfied the pit in her stomach, she realized, but not the hole in her heart.

_How's….Tom?_ With those words, with the effort he'd made to remember his name, a task he _still_ couldn't accomplish with Greg Lestrade, Molly realized that she'd never stopped loving Sherlock. So she informed him that Tom was fine, _still not a sociopath, _and they were having lots of sex, as if that made up for the fact that they didn't talk, that they didn't understand each other or laugh with each other like Molly did with Sherlock.

Sherlock's best man speech broke her heart. Watching him in his tuxedo speaking about his love for John and Mary, she wondered what it would be like to see him in a similar outfit, speaking of his love for her.

Then came the meat dagger. She couldn't marry him.

She had a type. A very specific type.

Self-proclaimed, and misdiagnosed, sociopaths. They were very unique. There was probably only one in the world. And she was in love with him.

Maybe she'd have to give "Romeo and Juliet" another read. It seemed there was something to that 'love at first sight' thing. Lying down, alone, for the first time in months, she just hoped her story had a better ending.

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**I own nothing. Reviews welcomed and appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

_Damn that man!_

Molly sat down where she stood, hands trembling, because her legs wouldn't support her anymore. Oh, God, he was back. Jim. James Moriarty.

She took a deep, shaky breath, and let it out. She remembered the first time she'd seen Ji- Moriarty. It had been at the hospital, in the canteen. He'd commented on her blog, asking her to get coffee sometime. She'd tried that with Sherlock in the past, but it had never worked, and no one commented on her blog, _ever. _She'd been flattered, a little flustered, and fancied herself as having a secret (or not-so-secret) admirer and she'd accepted.

He hadn't been attractive, exactly, but he'd been charming and kind and complimentary – all of the things Sherlock hadn't been at the time – and she enjoyed his company. It wasn't like with Tom – she hadn't expected anything serious with J- _Moriarty_. She'd never slept with him, thank _God_. She had, she admitted, really just used him, used him like he used her, _exactly_ like he used her, it turned out, to get to Sherlock.

She still wasn't sure why she thought she could make Sherlock jealous, but at that point, nothing else had worked and she'd shrugged her shoulders and thought, _Okay, why not? You're just desperate enough to try this_. But then came the "gay" comment and the phone number and Molly feeling like a fool in front of Sherlock, _again_, and Moriarty and John and the second they'd left the lab he'd dropped his act and rolled his eyes at her and she'd dumped him. And he'd left and she'd thought that was the end of it.

Looking back, she was probably lucky he hadn't shot her then and there.

Still shaking, she got to her feet. So Moriarty was…back? How was that possible? She'd examined the body herself – gunshot wound to the head, point blank range, entrance and exit wounds visible. He'd died instantly. Is this how John had felt, perhaps, when Sherlock waltzed back into his life?

Molly closed her eyes. _Waltzed in, waltzed out_. Sherlock was gone, _again_, and this time for good. She hadn't visited him in prison, no one had, it wasn't allowed, but he'd left her a message. She reached into her pocket, smoothed it out, and read it again, needlessly, since she'd memorized it ages ago.

**Dear Molly,**

**I've gotten myself into a mess that even you can't get me out of, I'm afraid. I don't think it's likely that I will see you again so I wanted to take this opportunity and thank you, once more, for all that you've done for me, which is more than you know. You've always counted, I've always trusted you, and I will not forget you. I do hope, though, that you forget me because you deserve the world, Molly Hooper. I hope you get it.**

**Best,**

**SH**

She refolded the note and held it between her palms. Forget Sherlock Holmes? That was never going to happen. That letter had broken her heart, though. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

First when John brought him in for a drugs test. She'd never slapped anyone before that test came out positive (so many drugs, she hadn't the heart to tell John the specifics.) She'd seen girls do it in movies and usually rolled her eyes at how cliché a reaction it was. Wasn't one of the first things you learned as a child, "Use your words?" But, God, at that moment, her heart broke and words failed her, but her arm didn't. Because the drugs (and she'd always known about the drugs - it was one of the first things Lestrade had told her about him, when he saw that she was interested,) the drugs changed him. Everything that made Sherlock _Sherlock_ was gone, replaced by a greasy-haired, unshaven bum with a faraway look in his eyes. With a shot in a syringe, he'd killed the man she loved and replaced him with a stranger. So she'd slapped him.

After the drugs came the shot. And he'd broken her heart again, because the last interaction she'd had with him had been The Slap (she'd started referring to it in her head as a proper noun, a significant, life-changing event. She wasn't quite sure why.) She'd received John's frantic phone call just as she'd gotten out of the shower after work: _"Molly, we're at the hospital. It's Sherlock. He's been shot. He's – oh, God, I've got to go." _She'd sat, dumbfounded, wrapped in a towel at her kitchen table for a full ten minutes before she could react. Grabbing the nearest pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt she could find, she'd run, hair still dripping, to the hospital, not even bothering to wave over a cab. There she'd found John (red-eyed and pale,) Lestrade (stone-faced, a hand on John's shoulder,) and Mrs. Hudson (openly crying, dressed in her nightgown) all huddled together in a third floor corridor. _"He's in surgery,"_ Lestrade had explained. _"He flat-lined a few minutes ago, but they've got him back."_

He. Flat. Lined.

Molly hadn't cried, not there. She'd sat and held Mrs. Hudson's hand as she fretted, talking about tea and biscuits and something about a skull, and when Sherlock finally came out of surgery, she hadn't gone into the room with the others, but gone home instead. She saw dead bodies on a regular basis; she didn't know how to handle dying ones, though.

She'd visited a few days later, after he'd run away and been retrieved, his heart having been restarted in an ambulance, and he'd endured several more hours of surgery for internal bleeding. _Bloody idiot_, she reflected. She still didn't know what was so important that he'd run around London, sneaking out a window and nearly killing himself in the process. But if Sherlock thought it important, she trusted that it was.

He'd been pale and half-asleep when she saw him (and bare-chested, she'd noticed immediately, before noting that it was a highly inappropriate time for her to notice that.) When she entered, he'd pointed to his morphine drip, which was being kept to a bare minimum. She'd thought he was in pain, but when she reached to up it, he'd shook his head and reached out to stop her hand, holding it a little longer than was necessary (or maybe that was her imagination.) He'd slurred through the conversation, but the one thing he kept repeating was, "Thank you." Over and over just, "Thank you." She didn't know why, but she said, "You're welcome," each time, which he seemed to find comforting.

Then the newspaper articles started coming out. John told her they were fake, (she'd blushed through that conversation – was she still so obvious?) that the girl from the wedding (whom Sherlock had tossed a flower to, she hadn't failed to notice) was bitter that Sherlock had dated and proposed to her only to break into her employer's office. Molly couldn't blame her for that. She knew what it was like to be used. And so Sherlock broke her heart again, because if he thought that was okay, that he could make someone fall in love with him and then reject her, she questioned whether he could ever really understand love at all. And she hated herself for questioning that.

And the other shot. _Sherlock's_ shot. The shot that killed newspaper tycoon Charles Augustus Magnussen in cold blood. The press had a field day with it: "Murder Solver Becomes Murderer;" "Genius Detective Snaps – Trial Imminent;" "Back From the Dead to Send Someone Else." She didn't understand why, and no one would tell her, but she would never believe that Sherlock killed without his reasons. And it broke her heart to see his name slandered throughout London. And it broke her heart to think of him alone behind bars. And it broke her heart when she learned he was leaving.

She slowly made her way back to the lab. It would be the last time Sherlock Holmes broke her heart, though, because his plane was gone. She'd watched the clock during her shift, being entirely unproductive, and when she knew he'd left, she'd taken her break with the idea that she would drink some coffee, watch some TV, and wallow. But that hadn't turned out as planned.

_Did you miss me?_ She shuddered. No, it wasn't Moriarty she missed. The wrong person came back. If he was back. Which he wasn't. Because he was dead.

She placed a slide on the telescope in front of her in hopes of distracting herself from her sociopathic (and, unlike Sherlock, Moriarty _was_ a sociopath, she was sure of that) ex-boyfriend and her…nothing, actually, because he wasn't her Sherlock. She tied her hair back and sat down to work.

The door flew open. "Molly, I'm going to need you to run some tests on a body. We have to dig it up first so don't leave." She looked up just in time to see his coat before the door slammed shut. Slowly, a smile spread across her face.

_Damn that man._

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**I intended for this (like my other fics) to be a oneshot, but one reviewer in particular (S/O to Zarius) suggested that I incorporate some of the events from "His Last Vow" into it. I wasn't sure at first if I would be able to, and I didn't want to write something just for the sake of writing something, I wanted some content and character development, but couldn't get the "Damn that man" comment out of my head so this was the result. Thank you for all the positive feedback for chapter 1. And this one really is the last chapter. :)**

**Oh, and Molly's brief mention to checking out Sherlock in the hospital is a brief tie-in to one of my other fics, "Crisis Averted." Shameless plug, right there... **


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